


Glîtainbar

by lferion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afterlife, Bees, Bingo, Community: fan_flashworks, Counted Word Fic, Fealty, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 15:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20473145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: One of the bees flew close, and Fingon extended a hand. She landed on a finger, looking at him inquiringly. Her feet tickled.





	Glîtainbar

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](https://fan-flashworks.dreamwidth.org/1931158.html) on Fan Flashworks for the challenge 'Shelter' and the bingo prompt 'Stripes'.
> 
> Thanks go to Zana, Morgynleri & Runa for encouragement & sanity-checking. 
> 
> Title is meant to be Sindarin for 'Bee Home' (Honey-maker home). Naru-glîtain is 'red-honey-maker'.
> 
> Connects with Nîdh (Honeycomb), but certainly stands alone

Fingon stood at the end of the garden, the place where it went from being garden to something not-garden, less tended, more wild (though really, central Valinor had very little that could be called truly wild; strange, yes, wild, no), and watched the small cloud of bees as they floated near but not over that invisible line. _They_ certainly seemed to know where the border was. He wondered why they hesitated — bees visited his garden regularly. Though these were not quite the usual kind: between deep black stripes they had bands of glowing russet rather than gold. Copper-red, the color of Maedhros’s hair. Red bees. In Beleriand, Fingon would have wondered if they were a device of the Enemy. Here he knew they were not.

Perhaps they, as _he_ had, needed an invitation, permission to enter into that space which was Fingon’s, to know they were welcomed, wanted. Desired. And of course they were, as Maedhros had been, was, would be, welcome, wanted (desired — desired bee-sting-sharp, honey-sweet, bee-balm-soothing, wild and tended and so well-made, loved-and-beloved. Not that that aspect applied exactly to the bees. Though the flowers might think so.) There had never been time to speak, to bees or of bees, or otherwise, in Beleriand. 

One of the bees flew close, and Fingon extended a hand. She landed on a finger, looking at him inquiringly. Her feet tickled.

_::welcome we? shelter Queen? honey-home?::_

Solemnly, deliberately, Fingon answered, “Be welcome here, Lady, you and yours. Do come you in and make your home here, with us.” May you find shelter here, as we have. Free to come and go, to defend and be defended, to live and love and be loved.

The bee danced on his fingertip. _::come we. here-all-us-we. defend we.::_

He had not spoken, but it seemed she had heard, agreed, and was empowered to speak for her people. Fingon felt a particular warmth at his back, a hand on his shoulder and saw another come up smoothly and slowly — so as not to startle — to curl under Fingon's own. He was not surprised to hear Maedhros voice joining his in answer to the herald-bee's words with quiet sincerity. "And we, for our part welcome you and your House, will protect and defend you, rejoice in your joys and grieve in your sorrows, with all of our powers," (A brief pause, for this was not Beleriand (_'til death take us, the world end_), nor was there expectation or need to define end-conditions beyond what had already been accepted; and why a fealty-exchange with bees in the first place? Because it was a right thing to be doing, so they were.) "Until such time as we are agreed otherwise."

The herald-bee danced again and flew a circle around them both, before darting off to the shimmering, hovering cloud of _naru-glîtain_. After a moment of murmuring hum that rose and fell to resolve in a chord that sang of agreement and happiness, the copper-bright cloud followed her over the border and into their garden. 

"Bees, love? Shall we be bee — not keepers, they will keep themselves perfectly well — guardians?" Maedhros looked down at their hands where the herald-bee had stood. 

Fingon turned his hand so they were palm-to-palm, a sensation and connection that would never fail of delight. "Companions, I think, in need or in plenty, in peace or in war."

Maedhros laced his fingers through Fingon's, holding fast, silently reaffirming their own connection.

"I think you may find the oak by the north wall suitable," Fingon called out merrily, gripping back. Together, they watched the red bees fly home.


End file.
